


maraschino red

by queendromeda



Series: stuck in the jet wash [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First Meetings, M/M, Mildly Dubious Morality, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 09:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14892374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queendromeda/pseuds/queendromeda
Summary: "You're not Jeremiah," the boy said, staring at him with a practiced expressionlessness. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, and Jerome bet it was soft to the touch. Then he shoved those thoughts away."Nope," he said, popping the P and shrugging in some semblance of an apology. "I'm his brother. Jerome Valeska, at your service."





	maraschino red

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just get possessed by an urge to write a College AU. And then, sometimes, you accidentally create too much character backstory to fit in 2000 words. So, like, I sincerely hope this doesn't come across as super out of character. Its been real, y'all.

Someone was pounding on his door.

Jerome, in his heart of hearts, would like to believe that its the pizza he ordered over an hour ago — long enough that he was starting to consider smashing the front windows of the shop — but couldn't imagine any delivery person being that _desperate_. Which meant that it had to be someone he'd pissed off over the past week.

 _Except_ he'd practically been a non-entity on campus, bar the time, on Thursday, that he spent in the library tutoring Oswald Cobblepot on reflexive verbs. Now there were three hours he'd never get back. So, like, he has no idea who could be outside his apartment. Some dim corner of his mind hoped that it was one of the assholes he used to stir shit up with — the guys who made his last few years in Haly's worth it, before they turned from robberies to drug trafficking, and,  _sue him_ , but he'd rather not have anything to do with selling poorly cut cocaine to the rich brats of Gotham. 

Besides, it'd been a while since he last got in a fight. The paper-thin skin over his wrists was itching in anticipation. He wanted to be able to press down on his knuckles tomorrow morning and remember how good it felt to have blood all over his hands. He'd hate for his parole officer to start thinking he'd been tamed. 

So he opened the door, expecting to find Theo Galavan and his underlings waiting in the dingy hallway for him. 

Only, when he opened the door, they weren't the ones waiting for him. Instead, there was a stranger — a boy around his age, with dark, curly hair, and cheeks flushed from the cold, and furious brown eyes that flitted around, focusing on everything except for Jerome's face, like he was trying to gauge the situation he found himself in but couldn't quite grasp it fully. He was, Jerome noticed with bland interest, very attractive. That is if he was into the whole sad rich boy act, which, judging from the mud-splattered, patent loafers and the pressed coat that probably cost,  _at least_ , a month's worth of rent, might have been more than an act. 

On principle, Jerome tended to stay away from the upper echelon of society. It worked out pretty well because hardly anyone with a multi-million dollar trust fund settled in the Spanish department, preferring Business or Economics or Pre-Law or some other equally as douchey major to make their CEO dads and socialite moms proud. And, so, he felt pretty justified in not knowing what the fuck he'd done to piss the stranger off.

Before he could ask, though, the boy forced his way into his personal space, crowding him against the doorframe and curling his lip. To his credit, he did have a pretty firm grasp on the art of intimidation. If it had been anyone other than Jerome, maybe he would have even succeeded in scaring someone.

But it _was_ Jerome, and he felt more annoyed than frightened, especially since he was stuck breathing in the sickly sweet vanilla perfume the boy seemed coated in. For someone who clearly had more money than anyone needed, it was weird that he'd be wearing some three dollar perfume made exclusively for a clientele of middle school girls. 

The boy, with his dark eyes still focused behind Jerome's head, ground out, "You're such a fucking asshole." 

And, like, Jerome agreed. Full-heartedly, in fact. But he still couldn't help but think that the punch the boy caught him in the jaw with afterwards was a bit unnecessary. For some prep school bred brat, he had a surprisingly strong upper hook. 

When he touched his jaw, the skin tender, he was pretty sure it wouldn't bruise, but it would be a blotchy red for longer than he'd like. He could feel his own hackles raising, blood roaring violently in his ears, and he narrowed his eyes. The boy in front of him was a complete stranger — there was no way he'd forget a face that pretty, or eyes that angry. There was something curious about him. A juxtaposition between his actions and his energy. 

Then, in a move that either spoke of confidence or naivety or, maybe, both, the boy was pushing around him, shouldering his way into Jerome's apartment, not even pausing in his stride to look over his new surroundings. It was as if he'd done this before. Jerome, tapped his fingers against his jeans, something close to understanding was starting to dawn upon him, and that was the only reason he didn't slip a hand inside his pocket to pull out the knife he kept with him at all times. 

"Do you know why I told you to stop trying to talk to me?" The boy asked without any prelude, as he began to pace the length of the tiny living room. It was like he couldn't expel his energy fast enough, and, as he closed the front door, Jerome wondered if he could be high on something. "I thought your —  _interest_ was bordering on obsessive, and, you know what? You went above and fucking beyond in proving me right, Jeremiah!"

Jerome rolled his eyes. Of course, this was Jeremiah's fault. It figured that the week his brother finally left him alone, after spending nearly  _three weeks_ squatting on his sofa, that he would still somehow get Jerome caught up in his drama. Typical.

What Jeremiah did to get some rich asshole all fired up was anyone's guess, and, loathe as Jerome was to cut his rant off, especially when it was about his brother, he didn't really need things to escalate. Already the boy used the word  _obsessive_ in association with his brother — and, yeah, the shoe fit, but with obsession came  _possession_ and he was not interested in getting caught up in his brother's shit. 

So, he sighed as obnoxiously as he could, catching the boy's attention. "Not to cut your tirade short, handsome, but I think we may be victims of miscommunication."

The boy froze. His hands fluttered around for a moment before he shoved them into his coat pockets, and he blinked several times, as he finally stopped pacing for long enough to really look at Jerome. He was still for an impressive amount of time, seeming to catalog every aspect of Jerome's appearance, and, if he'd been at all self-conscious, he might have felt embarrassed by the intensity. 

Instead, he just winked. 

"You're not Jeremiah," the boy said, staring at him with a practiced expressionlessness. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, and Jerome bet it was soft to the touch. Then he shoved those thoughts away. 

"Nope," he said, popping the _P_ and shrugging in some semblance of an apology. "I'm his brother. Jerome Valeska, at your service."

The boy pursed his lips, which was much more distracting than it should have been, and, after a moment, seemed to recollect his anger. He glowered. "Your brother's an asshole."

Jerome laughed, maybe a bit too manically for such a new acquaintance — or,  _anyone,_ really — but, considering the boy had already assaulted him and then broke into his apartment with the intent to chew out his twin brother, he figured keeping up appearances wasn't too important. 

"Funny," he said, and, even though his laugh was still warbling his voice, some shred of bitterness seeped into the word, sharpening it. "Usually, people tell him that  _I'm_ an asshole." Usually, people said worse than that. Usually, his brother said worse than that. "What did he do to make a pretty little thing like you so angry?"

The boy's face did something complicated at that like he couldn't decide whether to be embarrassed or upset before it settled back into blankness. He ignored Jerome's question entirely, and instead asked, "Where's Jeremiah?"

Now, Jerome's never been one to have any sort of familial loyalty — or any sort of loyalty at all, unless you count his brief time with Theo, which he preferred not to think about unless he was drowning his sorrows in Everclear — and, he knew his brother well enough to know the type of person he got caught up on. Despite himself, he was starting to become curious about the odd rich boy in his living room. And, call it a sixth sense, he had a feeling that Jeremiah would get his ass kicked if he showed his face around campus anytime soon.

So, naturally, he told the truth. "He's out of town for a job interview until Tuesday. If you're gonna kill him, come back then."

That caught the boy's attention. He looked affronted. "I don't want to  _kill_ him."

It might have come across more sincere, if not for the questioning lilt at the end of his sentence. 

"Look, I'm not, like, judging." Jerome spread his hands out in a conciliatory gesture, his lips twitching at the disgruntled look on the boy's face. "I've been there before. Lived with the little shit my entire life. The fact that  _I_ haven't killed him is a fucking miracle. I'd go for it now, but it would totally screw up my parole."

Something that  _might_ have been a smile touched the corners of the boy's mouth. "Murder's so... permanent anyways."

He nodded in mock solemnity. "No suffering. No reflection. Nada."

The boy hummed in agreement, tilting his head coyly. "Reflection. That's — noble. Out of curiosity, how attached to his legs do you think he is?"

His wrist was itching again, and he could feel his heart beating faster, and, just like that, his interest in the strange boy reached a crescendo. He tapped his lips in faux-contemplation, moving towards the boy sedately, feeling very much like a predator encountering its like for the first time. 

"I'd guess that he's pretty attached. Tends to take them with him everywhere. I think the more important question is what a pretty boy like yourself plans to do?"

The boy was watching him carefully, holding himself still, and the closer that Jerome got to him, the more exhausted he looked. The lack of movement made him smaller, somehow. He was like a shattered teacup that was pieced back into shape by scotch tape. Functional, but broken. His eyes were less angry now, but the vindictive glint in them made Jerome's blood feel sluggish in his veins. This boy was a reflection of himself. More whole, less sure, but straddling the line between man and the monstrous, just like he was. 

After a pause, the boy said, "I think that I'll break them."

Jerome licked his lips. "And how would a pretty boy like yourself do that?"

"Probably," he said, his voice lowering as he moved closer to him, "The same way a pretty boy like  _yourself_ would do it."

And wasn't this boy just the cutest?

Jerome was positive that the boy _could_ break his brother's legs if he was so inclined to do so, and, maybe, if the fury he'd met Jerome with at the door returned he'd be able to follow through on it, but there was something soft in his heart still, something that still dealt in things like compassion and morality that would stop him from following through. 

Still, he humored him. There was something transcendental in coaxing the boy towards violence. "Sounds messy."

"That's life."

Jerome hummed low in his throat. His fingers were starting to twitch. He wanted to reach out and touch the boy in front of him, wanted to make sure that he was real and not some figment of his imagination. Did Jeremiah see what he saw when looking at him? Validation. A mirror. L'autre moitié. 

"For some reason, I get the feeling that this isn't how you usually solve your problems."

The boy raised an eyebrow. "I don't think I've ever had a problem like  _Jeremiah_." And the way he sneered over his brother's name was the prettiest sound Jerome had heard in years. "But," he continued, "Sometimes talking things out doesn't have the same — learning curve as an eye for an eye."

"Revenge?" Jerome asked, feeling somewhat let down about how  _boring_ that was. He took a long look up and down the stranger's body, definitely taking longer than necessary, before tilting his head to the side in mock puzzlement. "Your legs seem okay to me."

His mouth twisted harshly. "Mine are." 

And there was something bitter in that, something barbed. 

Slowly, Jerome could feel himself being drawn into whatever web had formed between his brother and the boy. He was curious and wanting, and there were so many things about the boy that didn't seem to add up quite right. The vanilla perfume, the muddy loafers, the dangerous look in his eyes — he was going to unravel him and all of his secrets.

"You know," he ventured, feeling his hands shake in excitement. "I ordered a pizza before you barged in here." 

The boy smiled, his teeth sharp in his mouth. "Did you?"

"Yep," he nodded. "I might even be convinced to share some with you if you tell me your name, sweet cheeks."

To Jerome's astonishment, the boy started to blush high in his cheeks, and he turned his head away in what had to be embarrassment. " _Shit_ , I can't believe how rude I've been," he said as if forgetting to introduce himself was his the worst thing he'd done that night — Jerome's jaw twinged in response — and he held out a hand to shake. "I'm Bruce. Bruce Wayne. It's a pleasure to meet you." 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always welcomed!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr @pennysworths.


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